I'll Keep You, You Don't Have to Say a Word
by Sebe
Summary: All Stiles is trying to do is stay sane in the face of his mounting madness. Derek doesn't understand it, hates with everything in him the way Stiles copes, but he loves Stiles. He needs him to be okay. That's all that matters. They are all that matters. Sterek. Warning for self-harm.


Author's Notes/Warnings: self-harm. Not quite right Stiles. Caring Derek.

Summary: All Stiles is trying to do is stay sane in the face of his mounting madness. Derek doesn't understand it, hates with everything in him the way Stiles copes, but he loves Stiles. He needs him to be okay. That's all that matters. They are all that matters. Sterek. Warning for self-harm.

**I'll Keep You, You Don't Have to Say a Word**

"Mm okay" Stiles tells him as he crawls under the covers, curls up. There's a slur to his voice that only further alarms Derek. He casts a quick glance around, checking that the orange bottles on the table seem to have the right amount in them, that there aren't other empty ones anywhere. Not this time. "Just tired."

He's always tired lately, Derek thinks, skin and bone and not much else. But he's not usually this bad.

Stiles curls further against the far wall, already half-unconscious. Derek can hear the genuine exhaustion, but he can't ignore what he's almost sure is the cause.

Reaching out, Derek slides his hand under the comforter, catching Stiles' wrist and pulling his arm out into the light. He makes an instinctual whining, hurt sound in his throat.

Stiles is groggy, but he still tenses under Derek's scrutiny.

"Sorry…" he murmurs, head lolling toward the wolf. And he is sorry. For putting that look on Derek's face, for being how he is, for just being. He waits for the tirade, the recrimination, the frustration. He waits for Derek to be fed up, to turn around and finally walk away. But Derek's never done any of those things to him and he doesn't now.

Stiles shivers as Derek passes immeasurably gentle fingers around the ever sensitive skin of Stiles' wounds.

"You got a vein, didn't you?"

Stiles closes his eyes, marks one more failure.

"Didn't mean to."

"I know." Derek tells him evenly and, not for the first time, Stiles wishes he was a living lie detector too. Derek folds the comforter down and lays Stiles arm outstretched on the bed, command clear. Don't move.

He's back with supplies with speed only gained through practice and Stiles is sorry, he is, but he's so tired too.

"You're still bleeding, Stiles." The helplessness in the voice makes the teen want to shrink in on himself. "These need stitches."

Stiles knows they do, knew it from the first sharp sting, but he'd been so exhausted, it was all he could do to clean them up a bit.

Stiles just watches Derek patch him up, drawing pain away that Stiles knows he deserves. He thinks he wants to cry or shake or scream, but he can't. Because sometimes he and his emotions, they just have a misunderstanding sometimes and he feels hardly anything at all.

The sterilized needle and thread don't hurt. Stiles doesn't move.

When Derek's done, he wipes away the dried blood around the stitching and smaller gashes. Stiles sees his lips moving, knows he's been murmuring lowly the whole time, but Stiles hasn't made sense of a word of it. He figures it might be more to calm Derek than himself.

Finally done, Derek wraps gauze around his arm, securing it with medical tape, leaving the bloodied cloths and packaging on the floor to be cleaned up later. Derek slides in next to Stiles who has already moved to accommodate him.

There's a hand on the back of Stiles' neck that has come to embody every kind of love and comfort Stiles has ever known; safety.

"Where else?"

Stiles squirms a bit, not wanting to talk about any of this. Ever. It's just something that he does, that he needs so he doesn't lose his mind. But he wouldn't lie to Derek even if he could. Not anymore.

Making an unhappy noise, Stiles moves his leg to brush Derek's.

The wolf's hand moves down, settling lower on Stiles' hip, just above the burns and gashes. They're smaller ones, really. Not bad.

Derek opens the bandage he'd kept in his hand while climbing into bed. Stiles knew the wolf's asking was just a formality. Derek could always tell where Stiles was hurt.

Done with that, Derek pulls Stiles closer, hand on a clear spot on Stiles' waist and the teen twists toward him. Derek makes sure Stiles is careful as he moves his arm, keeps it as straight as possible. Derek presses his forehead to Stiles', free hand brushing the ends of his hair.

They don't reaffirm their love or give ultimatums or apologies. They don't speak at all. They don't need to.

Derek kisses the faded and strangely shaped burn scar on Stiles' shoulder. Stiles doesn't pull back or hide away and that says all they need to.


End file.
